


This Life Has Its Victories (But Its Defeats Tear So Viciously)

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: The Iliad - Homer
Genre: Community: remixredux06, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-03-26
Updated: 2006-03-26
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:59:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If nothing else, Achilles' fit of pique has given them more time, and Patroclus can't help but be grateful for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Life Has Its Victories (But Its Defeats Tear So Viciously)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Curse of Immortality](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/7960) by jaebi_lit. 



> This is a remix of [**Curse of Immortality**](http://jaebi-lit.livejournal.com/29040.html) by jaebi_lit. Thanks so much to Devil Doll and Mousapelli for the beta.

i.

The shore in high summer. The sand burns the soles of their feet; the sun is hot on their backs as they collect shells and rocks worn smooth by the endless touch of the sea.

Thetis rises from the foam to greet her son, and Patroclus looks away, lowering himself to the sand to wait. He doesn't remember his mother, but doesn't envy Achilles his.

She and Achilles move down the shoreline to speak together in low, urgent tones, and Patroclus strains to hear, though he knows better than to get involved in the affairs of mothers and sons, knows better than to bring himself to the attention of the gods. That is Achilles' lot, and another thing Patroclus doesn't envy.

The sea licks at his feet, impatient as Achilles to leave this place, and he hears Achilles say, laughing, "That's not even a choice, Mother." Thetis remonstrates with him, cupping his face with one white hand. Achilles presses a kiss to her palm, then pulls her into a tight embrace. She closes her eyes, strokes his hair, more gold than red in the summer sun, and the pain on her pale, perfect face, so similar to Achilles' and so different, sets cold fear clutching at Patroclus' heart.

Thetis whispers parting words to her son and kisses him, and then melts into the sea.

Achilles drops to the sand beside Patroclus, his face bright with excitement. "Mother says if I go to Troy, I will have honor and glory the likes of which the world has never known. If I don't, I'll have a long, happy life with many children, but once they and their children are gone, no one will remember my name or what I've done." He lets a handful of sand dribble through his fingers. Patroclus raises an eyebrow and waits. "Of course we're going. How could I choose anything else and still call myself a man?"

_You could spare a thought for those who love you, and the sorrow your death will bring us,_ Patroclus thinks, but he says, " _You_ couldn't." There is no censure in his tone; it's the truth, after all. Patroclus would love Achilles anyway, but perhaps it is this bright, goddess-born flame, and the knowledge that it cannot last, that draws him in, holds him close.

He promises himself he will make each moment they have together, however few or many, count.

*

ii.

The sands of Ilium, warmed by the mid-morning sun. It lights the world, turns Achilles' hair to fine-spun gold as he paces the shore. Achilles grins wide, wide as the horizon, a flash of sharp, white teeth and the stretch of full, pink lips, irresistible, demanding attention in that way he has. Patroclus rarely fails to give it to him, even after so many years.

"I could see Phthia again," he says.

Patroclus leans back on his hands, head cocked, wondering where this is going. "You could," he answers, nodding. "But do you really want to?"

The question seems to puzzle Achilles. He starts pacing again, kicking up sand and ignoring Patroclus' frown when it lands on him. "We could leave tomorrow. We could wash the stinking dust of Troy from our feet and be home in a few weeks. You would like that. You had no wish to be here in the first place." He sounds like a sulky child, denied a treat.

Patroclus bites back a sigh. "When has what I wanted ever mattered?" Achilles opens his mouth to refute that, and Patroclus knows he's not being fair, but he's not sure he cares. He tries again with, "I swore an oath. As did you. So you can speak of leaving all you like, but we both know you're not going to."

"I--"

"If you're going to say you don't care, don't."

Achilles turns, looks out over the waves as if he can already see the high walls of his father's fortress rising from the water. "I'm--"

But once again, Patroclus doesn't let him finish. "And don't tell me you're sorry, either." His voice is low, savage. "You made your choice and you know it. You made it nine years ago, when we set out for this godforsaken place. You can't escape it now." Patroclus takes perverse pleasure in reminding him, as if either of them has ever forgotten. As if it hasn't hovered over them for nine bloody years, shadowing every thought, every word, every touch.

"I'm not trying to escape it," Achilles says, stung. "But I can't bear--"

"What can't you bear? Having second thoughts?" Patroclus folds his arms across his chest as Achilles swings around to face him.

"No. I hate that Agamemnon thinks he can insult me with impunity because he knows I won't leave. Can't leave." Achilles drops to his knees and grabs Patroclus' shoulders, his gaze scorching as the sun, set against the king of the Achaeans. "I don't want to leave. My destiny is here. I've not forgotten it." His hands are hot against Patroclus' skin, as if his passion for glory is burning him up from the inside out. Maybe it is. Maybe what Patroclus has always thought was love is nothing more than this hunger for glory.

Achilles lets go and sits back on his heels. "I only want Agamemnon to give me my rights." The sulky boy is back. "If he can take what I, the best of us all, rightfully won, then he can do it to anyone. It's not right. It's not honorable."

"Well, there's nothing to be done about that, except watch the Trojans push toward our ships and wait for him to come begging for your aid." Patroclus leans forward, smiling. "Until then, I can think of better ways to pass the time than brooding."

Achilles springs, quick and agile as a lion, pinning Patroclus to the sand. "Oh, really?" he asks, his grin returning, wicked, wild, and the fire in his eyes rekindled.

Patroclus reaches up and pulls him down into a kiss, tasting salt and sand and heat, always willing to burn like this. He tries not to think about how many more days they have left, how many more kisses they will share before Achilles meets his fate. If nothing else, Achilles' fit of pique has given them more time, and Patroclus can't help but be grateful for that.

*

iii.

A riverbank. Cool. Dark.

Patroclus knows he's dead, knows he'll never again feel the yielding softness of Achilles' lips against his, nor the firm strength of Achilles' thighs. He remembers his own disobedience, the god's wrath, and Hector's killing stroke. The wide waters of Acheron rush before him, but he cannot cross. He cannot cross, and he cannot go back.

"Achilles." He sighs, affectionate, exasperated, while the dead shrink from him.

"Achilles." Louder this time, meant to be heard beyond the milling throng of dead, meant to be heard among the living, in their dreams at least.

"Achilles." And a third time, charmed, called, the ritual complete.

"Patroclus." Frantic with grief, Achilles reaches out a bloodstained hand, but even in dreams, the dead cannot touch. Now, Patroclus learns they can still feel pain.

"Forgotten me already?" he asks. Tender words would set them both to weeping; better to rouse Achilles to duty than to greater grief.

"Never."

"Then give me my rites and let me go." He reaches out a hand himself, hovering by Achilles' tear-stained cheek, imagining he can once again feel the warmth of flesh so dear. "I've followed the path the gods laid out for me, and now it's time for me to go." He smiles ruefully. "You'll be with me soon enough."

"Patroclus--"

"You made your choice, and I made mine. No use weeping over it now."

Achilles' hand clenches into a fist, but his voice is even. "Always so practical, my Patroclus." He looks away, down at the sand, silver in the moonlight that makes ghosts of them both. "I never thought--"

"No, you didn't." Patroclus laughs a little, remembering. "The gods have a strange sense of humor." That wins him a weak smile, a mellow brightness in the dark. "I have one last request."

"Anything." Achilles is desperate, compliant. Patroclus knows he is one of a rare few who have seen this side of Achilles, and it makes his still heart ache to beat again.

"Lay my bones to rest with yours, in the urn your mother gave you. We came to Troy together, Achilles. Let us leave the same way."

"Of course." He opens his mouth to say more -- Achilles always wants to say more, promises, pronouncements, predictions -- but Patroclus shakes his head. Achilles bites his lip, his eyes shining with tears.

Patroclus lets the silence stretch. Though he doesn't want to, he knows he will have to be the first to say goodbye. Letting go has never been one of Achilles' strengths.

"Patroclus, please." Achilles reaches for him again, but there is nothing of him to hold, and even his shade is fading fast.

"Remember me," he whispers as the silver sand of Ilium's shore is replaced by the black soil of Acheron's banks.

end

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Cowboy Junkies.


End file.
